• Los Angeles

    I like Los Angeles art, I really do, and I’ve learned slowly that the silver and light, opalescence and reflection, skinny twigs and white feathers, sanded surfaces and fey performance that are washed in the sea and toasted in the sun (rather than dunked in sludge and compressed in the library) are not lesser, only more oblique. But I am inundated by tales of so-and-so in the ’30s, a grizzled veteran with a wide-brimmed hat, three days’ growth, in need of a shine, haircut, and a bit of compassion from the WPA’s easel painting department. I treasure the 50¢ catalogues from Sidney Janis (Motherwells,

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